


I Ain't Misbehavin'

by Space_and_Thyme



Series: You Are My Lucky Star [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1936, Anger, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Presents, Drunk Bucky Barnes, Gen, I don't like how the tags keep rearranging themselves, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Masturbation, Pre-Relationship, Pre-War, Scottish Bucky Barnes, it makes it read awkwardly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: December, 1936.Bucky has promised Steve that he'd never go out with Lizzie or Myrtle, because he doesn't want to interject himself any further into that part of Steve's life. But, almost immediately, Bucky breaks that promise. He goes out with both women, leaving Steve seething at home, only to come home beyond drunk.Or, in which Bucky breaks his promise for a very good reason, and comes home drunk enough that his brogue comes back full force.Also, the start of new Christmas traditions





	I Ain't Misbehavin'

_Friday, December 11 th, 1936_

_6:00 pm_

Steve was fuming – more than fuming, he was _burning_ with rage as Bucky moved about their small apartment, getting ready for his date.

 

“Would ya calm down, you’re making me dizzy!” Bucky sighed as he straightened the fine-print black and red floral cravat he was wearing – sliding the double Windsor knot up closer to the up-turned collar of his dress shirt. He folded the spear-pointed collar down and plucked at his sleeve cuffs.

 

“You promised me – you _promised_ me James!” Steve snarled as he stalked along behind his friend’s taller frame.

 

Bucky spun himself around on his heel as he walked, shrugging his shoulders easily as he made a face and continued to walk backwards. “I don’t know what to tell you-“

 

“You _promised_ me you wouldn’t go out with LIZZIE!” Steve snapped.

 

It was true. Two weeks earlier he’d asked Bucky what he meant to do about Lizzie – the girl in Steve’s class who had obviously been infatuated with Bucky when he’d modeled for the class two weeks in a row – and Bucky had told him what he’d thought at the time was the truth. Bucky had told Steve that he had no intention of dating the redhead girl _or_ her friend Myrtle. And yet here he was, going on a date with _both_ girls. Of course he’d asked Steve to go, but Steve knew better – it was a gesture extended only because Bucky pitied him and his lack of skill with women, while Bucky himself could make any woman fall over herself with one gentle sea-steel gaze from beneath long dark lashes. Steve _wanted_ to hate him for it, but couldn’t. What he _did_ hate was the fact that Bucky had completely disregarded the promised he’d made to Steve, after less than a month.

 

What hurt was that Bucky had promised to have no involvement with Lizzie, or Myrtle for that matter, _because_ they were Steve’s classmates. Bucky had said he didn’t want to interject himself into the part of Steve’s life that he didn’t belong in – the modelling was the one liberty taken with that promise, because they both benefited from the money, and Bucky had already been a model for Steve for the last year.

 

What hurt was that Bucky didn’t even seem to see what was wrong with the situation.

 

“Look, it’s just _one_ night! And you’re more than welcome to come! But if ya are, ya gotta get a move on, pal – you’d better get a move on or we’ll be late.”

 

“I’m not goin’ with ya, Bucky! You’re outta your god damned mind if ya think you can just smooth this over like that!”

 

Bucky threw his hands palm-up as he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t what ta tell ya, Stevie-“

 

“ _Don’t_ call me Stevie!” Steve snarled and suddenly shot his hands out – shoving Bucky square in his broad chest.

 

Bucky gasped slightly as he stumbled back a couple of steps – normally his balance was decent enough, but the unexpected _attack_ had caught him off guard. “Now wait just one minute here, _pal_!” he spat back as he pressed forward back into Steve’s space. “I _asked_ ya if you wanted ta go with us! I asked if ya wanted ta go ta dinner and drinks and then dancin'! _You_ said no!”

 

By this point they were nearly nose to nose, as Bucky stooped just enough to make direct eye contact with Steve.

 

“You really don’t get it, do ya?!” Steve growled angrily, almost panting from rage.

 

“ _Obviously_ not, punk!” Bucky’s hard breathing was no better.

 

“You _promised_ me ya wouldn’t go out with Lizzie!”

 

“I’m _not!_ ”

 

“No! You’re not! What’s worse is you’re goin’ out with _both_ of them!”

 

“Oh _Stevie!_ ” Bucky groaned as he dragged his hands down his face in exasperation. “We’ve been _through_ this! I _asked_ ya ta go with us!”

 

“No! I’m not goin’ with ya so ya can rub it in my face that ya can get any girl ya want – _including_ the ones ya already promised were off limits!”

 

“Oh for God’s sake, Steven!” Bucky ran his hand back through his previously combed and Brylcreem slicked hair – immediately re-separating his curls. He didn’t seem to notice, or care, instead gesturing firmly at his shorter friend with the hand that had slid through his hair. “I don’t have _time_ for this, pal! I’m leavin’ – I’ll be back later!”

 

“Well maybe _I_ won’t be!” Steve shouted as Bucky grabbed his coat and scarf by the door.

 

Bucky froze, and slowly turned look back at Steve – his face a mask of emotionless frigidity, while his eyes blazed with anger. Steve swallowed slightly as Bucky’s sudden coldness chilled him, but he maintained his own burning glare – still panting with anger.

 

Bucky stayed silently as he wound his wool scarf around his neck, and pulled on the old brown and tan plaid wool pea-coat he wore in the winter. After a moment, he turned his attention back to Steve. “If that’s how you _really_ feel, than fine.” He patted his pockets to be sure he had his keys and wallet, before opened the front door of the apartment, and stepped out.

 

The door did not slam. It did not close with a bang. It merely met its frame with a quiet and resolute finality that left Steve feeling as empty as the ringing silence.

 

Steve sighed to himself as he sank down on the couch – his head immediately dropping as he put his face into his hands – elbows firmly planted on his knees. He breathed out a slow exhale, focusing on the rush of air in order to calm himself down. He wasn’t worried about an attack, he just needed to come down from the emotional high he’d been in for the last twenty minutes. He was an idiot, and he knew it. His heart ached – not his physical heart, but with the tightness in his chest from the emotion… well, it might as well have been.

 

★

 

The entire hour’s ride to Manhattan seemed to pass in a blur of darkness and street lights. He wasn’t angry – Bucky hadn’t been angry at all through the confrontation. What he was, however, was dismayed that Steve thought so little of him – that he thought that Bucky would wilfully hurt him like this.

 

_Yes,_ Bucky _could_ get any girl that he wanted. And, if he was being honest, probably a decent portion of the male population as well. But what mattered was that he _didn’t_ want.

 

He would have thought that was at least _somewhat_ obvious, given the fact that he was a nineteen year old man _more_ than capable of getting any girl he wanted, and he still _chose_ to remain single – a few dates here and there with a couple of girls a year…well, he didn’t really count those as being anything serious or important – and more importantly, _neither did the girls_.

 

If he’d thought for a moment that he’d truly broken the hearts of any of his former gals, well, Bucky would have tried his best to fix his wrongs and make them smile again. But that hadn’t happened – all they were doing was having fun with Bucky. A couple of pictures at the cinema,  a few rounds being flung around a dance floor with laughter – a limited number of tender but eager kisses that, to his credit, Bucky rarely took any further. Unwilling to damage the reputations of pure girls, and not quite willing to damage his own, should word spread – not that people didn’t talk already. But at least there was a difference – people could talk about Bucky’s sexual prowess all they wanted, what mattered in the end was that _he_ knew the truth.

 

That wasn’t to say he was virginal and innocent. Far from it, to be honest. But sexual conquest wasn’t a game to Bucky – his mother, and Sarah Rogers for that matter, had raised him better than that. So, when it did happen, it was with the girls he’d been going steady with for more than a few weeks – and he was sure that they were willing participants that wouldn’t regret being taken to his bed. They never seemed to.

 

But, there were the rumours that spread. The most obvious one that came to mind was that Bucky had fingered a girl in a dark back corner of a dance hall one evening, and taken another girl home later that night.

 

It wasn’t _precisely_ true. It wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

 

What _had_ happened, was that Bucky had arranged to meet his and Steve’s dates at the dance hall, and had bumped into Millie Gillespie already there. Millie was sixteen, and infatuated with Bucky – not exactly a surprise. At the time Bucky himself was eighteen, and had zero desire for Millie beyond friendship. Honestly, he looked at Millie like she was his sister – she reminded him _of_ his sisters.

 

See, what had happened, was that Bucky had been leaning against the back wall, chatting and laughing with Millie. Millie, with hearts in her eyes, had snuggled into the warmth and safety of Bucky’s chest – and he’d let her, because he never thought twice about it – never thought of her in any way other than general fondness. She’d picked up his hand and held it as they talked – and, again, he’d allowed it. Until she’d pulled his hand up under her skirt and pressed the pads of his fingers against the front of her panties. Bucky had immediately jerked his hand away in shock, but the damage was done. Both Beverly and Ethel who were there to meet Bucky and Steve for their double date, had seen what transpired.

 

But they’d only seen Bucky’s hand beneath her skirts, and his sudden movement to withdraw it – and had _assumed_ that he’d pulled away because he’d been caught.

 

That was why the rumour had spread. Millie Gillespie hadn’t done a damn thing to subvert it either – to her it had been a badge of honour. She’d eventually realize, once she grew up, that the rumour was nothing of the sort.

 

And he _had_ taken another girl home that night. He’d walked Beverly home as a gesture of politeness, even though she was disgusted with him.

 

But worst of all, Steve had seen it happen. He’d seen it happen, and he’d thought the worst of it, like the girls had.

 

After that, they hadn’t spoken for almost two weeks – merely existing in the same small space as each other, as two completely separate people.

 

No, Steve should have known better. Yes, Bucky _could_ get any girl that he wanted, but he’d never rub it in Steve’s face.

 

Truth be told, there was only one person that Bucky even entertained the idea of truly giving himself to, romantically... And that idiot was sitting at home, seething with rage over a perceived broken promise.

 

As the train pulled into the station, Bucky heaved a sigh – he really _didn’t_ want to be out tonight – not any more. Not after that confrontation with Steve, but… he’d also made Lizzie and Myrtle a promise.

 

The two girls had chosen him for a solid few reasons. He was big, and could protect them. He was kind, and adoring. He had a reputation for going out with multiple girls in a night, so being out with Lizzie and Myrtle together was of no consequence. And, most importantly, he was trustworthy. Bucky would never do anything to bring unnecessary attention.

 

They met him on the platform, and Bucky immediately pushed his brooding thoughts aside – instead beaming brightly and offering each of them an arm. Without hesitation his two girls gravitated into his sides, enveloping Bucky in their grasps, even as their fingers entwined behind his back.

 

★

 

Steve had dozed off on the couch – a mug of tea abandoned and ice cold on the coffee table as he sat on the couch with his head tipped back. The hand holding the charcoal pencil had dropped to his thigh as he drifted off, and the sketch pad sagged off of his lap. The image of Bucky’s face with his burning eyes was half-finished on the page, and gazed up at its sleeping artist with such an intensity that it almost seemed to live and breathe on its own.

 

It had been a self-inflicted punishment. Penance. Reparation for the way that he had treated his best friend earlier in the night. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing – he’d only picked up his pad and the charcoal in order to distract and distance himself from his anger and upset. And to forget just how stupid he’d been.

 

Somewhere passed midnight, the raucous laughter coming up the external stairs to their apartment brought Steve back to consciousness. Groaning softly, he rubbed at his eyes as the sketchpad slid off of his lap and to the floor – skittering slightly under the worn-out old floral couch. The laughter was getting closer, and as Steve’s mind surfaced from the fog of sleep, he recognized the sound of it as Bucky’s.

 

“Shhh!” outside the door, still maybe ten feet away, Bucky’s loud shush came, followed by another peal of snickering laughter. “Yer gonna wake Stevie!” he snorted and dissolved into giggles again as the jingling of metal signalled his attempt and finding the front door key.

 

Steve’s brows furrowed – Bucky _couldn’t_ be serious right now – bringing home one (or both) of the girls. He sighed softly to himself, holding his breath as he waited.

 

Steve heard the giggling, and repeated shushing interspersed with snickers. He also heard the jangle of the keys dropping to the landing _twice_ as Bucky tried to find his key. He almost wanted to take pity on the _obviously_ drunk man. He still loved Bucky, no matter what had transpired between them that evening – pushing himself up from the couch, Steve started towards the front door to let his friend and roommate in with _whoever_ he’d brought home. It wasn’t any of his business anyway – he’d just be relegated to sleeping on the couch tonight.

 

But as he came towards the door, he heard the tumblers of the lock finally click as Bucky’s key fitted into it and turned. Outside, he was still shushing someone while he snickered and giggled. When the door swung open, Bucky was leaning heavily against the right side of the door frame – right hand planted on the wood high over his head as his weight flagged to that side. His face was red, from both the cold and the laughter – and, likely, from the whisky he’d ingested. He was grinning so widely that Steve’s first half sleep-drunk thought was _‘Oh, so that’s where the idea of the Cheshire Cat came from…’_ Bucky’s eyes were crinkled and watering with humour as he swayed slightly in the doorway.

 

Steve shook his head in tired affection. No matter what Bucky had done, he still loved the idiot. “Get in here, ya big lug-“ his brows furrowed together as Bucky stumbled and swaggered into their apartment, still giggling. No one followed him. Confused, Steve passed his completely tanked friend and stuck his head out the door – there was no one else waiting out there in the wings. The night was completely dark and empty but for the light of the street lamps.

 

Steve slowly turned back to Bucky, about to ask who he’d been talking to – when Steve realized.

 

Bucky was so thoroughly sloshed that _he_ was the one giggling _and_ being told to be quiet.

 

Bucky was half-sitting heavily against the back of the couch, still giggling. But, his laughter had gone on for so long that he was no longer making any sound – which only seemed to make him laugh harder. Steve shook his head in disbelief – he’d not seen Bucky _this_ drunk in ages. And, Bucky this drunk, only meant one thing-

 

“Oi! Stevie! Ge’ oo’re ‘ere! Cam an’ dance wi’ me yeh wee Joe!”

 

The brogue was back, and heavily slurred with drink. Steve couldn’t understand much of it, barely any of it at all most of the time. At least _that_ statement he’d understood. He sighed and rubbed between his brows. “Buck… how much have you had tonight?”

 

“Jus’ a wee dram, dinnae faaaash!” Bucky elongated the slur before he snorted and giggled again.

 

“ _Buck_. You’re _drunk_.”

 

“No A'm no!” Bucky pushed himself off from the couch and stalked towards Steve – a little unsteady on his feet and grinning all the while as he reached out and grabbed Steve’s hands, pulling him in against his whisky-soaked warmth. “Cam oan, gràdh beag! Dance wit’ yer auld Buck!”

 

Steve snorted as he collided with Bucky’s chest, and shook his head. “I’m not dancin’ with ya, you’re _completely_ destroyed! Ya need to lie down and sleep it off.” He struggled out of Bucky’s tight grasp and started to push his friend slowly, aiming towards the bedroom.

 

But, drunk Bucky was surprisingly quick considering the amount of alcohol pumping through his veins. He ducked out of the way and grabbed Steve’s hand again as he went – spinning Steve around on his heel. “ _Gràdh beag!_ ” he whined, and Steve had no idea what it meant, but he didn’t trust it. “Ar’ yeh still crabbit wi’ me? I dinnae do _anythin’_ , Stevie!”

 

Steve shook his head – he couldn’t condone this behaviour, no matter _how_ much it made him laugh when Bucky was this drunk. “I’m not mad, Buck. But you’re three sheets ta the wind, and ya need to sleep it off.” He tried again.

 

Bucky pouted faux innocently as he tilted his head to the side and pulled Steve closer by the hips before he locked his arms around his friend’s ribcage. “Balach òir…” he whined softly. “Dinnae be cross wi’ me… A o'nee took thaim oot fer a wee bi' o' dancin'” He was still sulking, though it verged on impish, and the words already slurred with alcohol suddenly became completely unintelligible for Steve.

 

Steve shook his head resolutely, while he tried to step back out of Bucky’s solid grip. “I can’t understand ya, Buck.”

 

“A _saed,_ A o’need took thaim oot fer a wee bi’ o’ dancin’… yeh believe me, right Stevie? A’d never dae anythin’ tae hurt yeh.” Bucky’s uncoordinated hand came up and clumsily pushed back through Steve’s blond hair.

 

Steve _wanted_ to push back into Bucky’s hand – both the one in his hair and the one on his back. Still, he barely understood any of that statement, and his mind was starting to swim with the attempt to decipher the drawling of his heavily pickled friend.

 

The heavy emotion passed, and suddenly Bucky was giggling again as he looked at the way Steve’s blond fringe was standing up after he’d run his hand through it. Steve barely registered what was happening, before Bucky’s hands came up and forcibly ruffled his hair over and over again as he snorted and giggled like a child.

 

“Bucky!” Steve gasped and swatted at Bucky’s large hands. “What the _Hell_ are ya doin’?!”

 

“Yeh look like a wee feisty lit’ull dug! Dae yeh yap, Stevie?!” the roar of laughter that _immediately_ followed had Bucky throwing his head back and nearly howling.

 

“Shh! Buck! For God’s sake you’re gonna wake the neighbours!” Steve hissed and tried to cover his friend’s mouth – which only ended in disaster as Bucky’s pink tongue shot out and licked his palm before he could clasp it over his mouth. “Christ!” Steve gasped and jerked his hand away like he’d been burned. “Go ta bed!”

 

“Nah until yeh listen tae me, gràdh beag! Cross meh heart – A o’nee took thaim oot fer a wee bi’ o dancin’.”

 

He was still making a face as he wiped his palm off on the leg of his trousers, and he _still_ didn’t understand what Bucky was saying to him. Sighing, Steve shook his head and tried another tactic. “Can you write?”

 

Bucky’s head jerked back in surprise as he blinked stupidly. “Coorse A can – me Maw dinnae raise no fool!”

 

Steve snorted, catching most of that one. “Okay, if ya can write, write down what you’ve been trying to say to me…” Steve pulled away from Bucky and walked back to the couch. He fished out the sketchpad, and flaring red he quickly turned the page so that the half-finished drawing of Bucky wouldn’t be spotted by its subject. He walked back to Bucky with the pad in one hand, the charcoal pencil in the other. “Here…”

 

Bucky swayed slightly, before grabbing the paper and pencil – putting the pencil to the paper with his left hand.

 

“Wow… you _really_ are drunk… if Sister Meredith saw you writing with your left hand again, she’d beat you somethin’ awful…” Steve shook his head.

 

Bucky shrugged as he wrote. “Sister Meredith can go sook aff tha Toad Man a Plockton.” He passed the paper back to Steve. Steve looked down at the paper excited to finally read what Bucky had been trying to say to him. His face immediately fell in disbelief.

 

In strangely clear writing – given how drunk the man was and how long it had been since he’d been allowed to write with his left hand – Bucky had committed one sentence to the paper:

 

_A o’nee took thaim oot fer a wee bi’ o dancin’._

 

Steve groaned and smacked the sketchpad up against his forehead in defeat. Bucky immediately started giggling again.

 

Throwing the pad aside and back onto the couch as he took the pencil from Bucky and tucked it behind his ear, Steve sighed in defeat. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to collapsed with his clearly destroyed friend and just spend the night laughing and confessing secrets the way they did when they were younger and completely steeped in whisky and bathtub gin.

 

But, they were older now – not by much, but older still. And, Steve knew if he let himself get lost in the laughter he would inevitably confess something to Bucky that shouldn’t be brought to voice. Bucky wouldn’t remember come morning, but Steve would…

 

And it would be so easy to let it happen – to let the words come out. When he was drunk, Bucky was affectionate – more than he was sober. It was a different sort of affection, more physical. He was more given to hugging and cuddling Steve after too much alcohol. But, when he was steeped enough for the brogue to come back full force, well… Bucky was a loveable and giggly drunk, who liked to kiss Steve’s cheeks far too much, and for much too long. It would have been more than Steve could have handled.

 

 “Enough, Bucky. You’re completely fried and ya need ta sleep. Come with me.” Taking Bucky by the arm, Steve shook his head as he tried his best not to laugh, and directed his larger friend towards their shared bedroom.

 

Bucky wolf-whistled as Steve manhandled him – immediately dissolving into childish giggles the second he heard his own whistle – he snorted loudly as he tried too quickly to suck in a breath through his nose. This set him off to a point of soundless laughter again, as he wavered on his feet and leaned heavily on Steve- laying his cheek against Steve’s crown.

 

Finally getting Bucky in through the door of their shared bedroom, Steve grabbed Bucky by his shoulders, and pushed him – walking him back towards their bed. When Bucky’s legs collided with the mattress, his eyes widened as he suddenly lost his balance. He pin-wheeled his arms before he landed heavily on the bed with a _thwump!_

 

“Stevie!” He gasped softly, before grinning in that _specific_ feline nature that he saved for the girls that found themselves on his arm. “A dinnae ken yeh wanted ta kip wi’ me!”

 

Steve’s brows furrowed in confusion. “ _Kip_ with you?”

 

Grinning with a little more sinister of a nature, Bucky’s hand raised and knotted in Steve’s shirt and he jerked him close. His voice rumbled lowly in his ear. “Means yi’ll want tae hurl me like a plow horse.”

 

Steve flared bright red – he didn’t understand the words _exactly_ , but he _definitely_ caught the meaning of that one. He swallowed tightly, and tried to play it off without a thought. “Ya can’t throw a plow horse – _I_ especially can’t, Buck.”

 

Bucky’s brows furrowed together as he considered what Steve was saying – his expression suddenly lightened as his brows shot up. “Ah! Noo… _Hurl_ doesna mean _throw._ Hurl means… _Ride.”_ The word rang in Steve’s ears.

 

He cleared his throat and batted Bucky’s hand away – more than glad that Bucky was inebriated enough that he’d never remember this conversation come morning. Steve, however, was too sober for this conversation. “Bucky you’re drunk and you’re not makin’ any sense.” He lied. _Ride_ he’d understood. “I need ya to go to sleep.”

 

“Braw!” Bucky huffed as he flopped back on the bed, totally star-fished. He was quiet for a long few moments, and Steve almost thought he was safe, as he went about untying and removing Bucky’s scuffed oxfords.

 

But, Bucky was gazing up at the ceiling. His drunken and brogue laced voice broke the silence after a moment of letting Steve fuss over him. “A ken yeh dinnae believe meh, Stevie – yeh were crabbit wi’ me… A dinnae dae it tae hurt yeh, _gràdh beag_ , A did it fer Lizzie an’ Myrtle… they needit me, Stevie.”

 

Steve’s brow raised distrustfully as he watched Bucky lift his head just enough to look at him.

 

“Ach! Dinnae look a’ me like tha’! A’m tellin’ tha truth!” Bucky huffed again as he flopped back against the mattress again – returning his gaze to the ceiling as Steve set his shoes aside and rolled off his argyle socks. “They’re sae in loue, Stevie… Absolutely _enchanted_ wi’ ilk ither.”

 

This time when Steve’s brows furrowed together, it was complete confusion. “What?”

 

“I _saed_ they’re smitten wi’ wan anither.”

 

Steve fell silent for a moment. This was an unexpected turn of conversation, as he thought they had just been discussing his date with Lizzie and Myrtle. But… “Who?” He hedged carefully.

 

“Red Lizzie an’ her bonnie wee Myrtle.”

 

Steve’s stomach dropped as his flesh seemed to sear with sudden guilt as it gripped him tightly. His mouth ran dry as he tried to focus on quietening his spiralling thoughts long enough to find his voice. “You… you mean… Lizzie and Myrtle-“

 

“Like Val’rie an’ Florence neist door, Aye. As _Lavender_ as thay come.”

 

Steve’s mind was still trying to shut down. He’d seen the way that Lizzie had looked at Bucky while he was their class model – had seen the way she clearly melted under his gaze. At no point had he considered that she and Myrtle might have been – oh, but looking back the signs had all been there. Maybe Lizzie was, like Steve could never openly admit of himself, attracted to _both_ men and women. After all, Bucky _was_ definitely a pretty man…

 

He shook his head, banishing those thoughts for now. The guilt was gnawing at him. “So… ya just… took them out on the town… as a _chaperone_ for their date?”

 

“ _Aye_ , Stevie – yeh cannae poss’bly hae thought tha’ A was datin’ both o’ thaim  - did yeh?” Bucky pushed himself up onto his elbows as he looked at Steve with piteous wide eyes that sparkled silver. He _knew_ how to pull on Steve’s heart strings, and Steve thanked his lucky stars that it was _only_ a tactic used when Bucky was drunk.

 

Steve’s shoulders sagged as he eased himself down onto the mattress, sitting beside Bucky’s calves with his back to his friend. He couldn’t meet his wide-eyed, faux-innocent, gaze. If he did, he’d completely surrender. He sighed long and slowly. “’m sorry, Buck… I should have known better than that…” he reached down and patted Bucky’s calf with a resolute three pats.

 

Bucky leaned forward and wrapped his arm around gently around Steve’s shoulders and neck. He tugged, and eased Steve back against him as he breathed out a soft little sigh of drunken content. Steve swallowed tightly as he allowed Bucky to pull him close – leaning back into the whisky-soaked warmth of his friend. He closed his eyes for just a moment, knowing that Bucky couldn’t see his face – reveling in gentleness of Bucky nuzzling his hair.

 

“Dinnae fash yerself, Stevie. A cuid ne’er stae cross wi’ yeh” his voice was soft as it rumbled warmly near Steve’s ear. A beat paused, before he spoke again. “A’d fight an arimie fer yeh, Stevie. A hail fookin’ airmie… Take thaim oan wan handed.” He turned his face and pressed a slightly sloppy kiss against the side of Steve’s head.

 

Steve rolled his eyes. That statement he’d understood. “I’m not askin’ ya to fight a whole army, Bucky. Least of all one handed.”

 

“But A wuid.” Bucky tilted his head and pressed another kiss onto Steve – this time against his cheek. “Anythin’ fer yeh, gràdh beag.” Bucky lowered himself back down onto the mattress, and pulled Steve down with him – still nuzzling at Steve’s ear and pressing small but wet kisses to his cheek and jaw.

 

Steve sighed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head a little. He was trapped in Bucky’s embrace – all that he could do, was wait it out until Bucky either fell asleep, or got bored. Steve swallowed tightly as Bucky’s hand laid over his heart, and pressed gently – it almost seemed like he wanted Steve to feel him burned – seared – onto his heart.

 

As if Bucky wasn’t already etched there in loving, gleaming, detail.

 

Eventually Steve managed to pull away from him - the moment Bucky fell asleep. He sighed softly and sat up, looking down at Bucky. Bucky who, despite being dishevelled, was still almost completely dressed. Shifting off the bed, Steve leaned back down and loosening Bucky’s cravat, before popping the buttons on his collar.

 

With considerable effort, considering Bucky was a lump of softly-snoring drunken dead weight, Steve managed to strip the man down to his undershirt and boxers – almost falling to the floor as he tugged Bucky’s oxford bags off. He huffed and put the laundry into the hamper before he carded his hand back through his hair. He looked at the clock – it was after one in the morning. The length of the day and the emotional toll was starting to take its pound of flesh, and he sighed softly to himself. In a few moments, Steve was undressed to his underwear. He turned the overhead light off with a press of the push-button switch, and found his way through the darkness back to the bed. He crawled in, shoving Bucky over unceremoniously as he collapsed into the cozy softness of the bedding.

 

He was asleep within moments.

 

Two hours later, something broke Steve from the lull of sleep.

 

The mattress of their bed was old – abused by years of use through Steve’s childhood and adulthood – trying to support the weight of two adult men. It was lumpy, and the slightest movement made the springs creak and groan in protest. Movement was easily transferred from one side of the narrow mattress to the other, as the springs had half collapsed years ago.

 

Steve’s brows furrowed together as he tried to concentrate in the darkness – trying to figure out what broke him from the depth of his rest. And then he realized the mattress was creaking lowly, and shifting ever so slightly. Blinking in the darkness, he started to turn his head towards the other side of the mattress as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

 

Bucky’s face was nearly concealed by the low light of their bedroom, but Steve could just barely make out a slightly twisted and furrowed expression with parted lips. He was lying on his belly, rolled slightly onto his right hip as his lower back flexed slowly and easily. His left leg was hitched slightly higher up the mattress, and Steve realized, belatedly, that Bucky’s left hand had pushed passed the buttoned waistband of his shorts. His friend was panting in quiet little puffs – moaning breathlessly as he thrust himself against his palm – stroking hot and desperate flesh.

 

A brilliant blush flooded over Steve’s face and upper body as he realized what Bucky was doing, mere inches away. He was frozen – so completely shocked at what he was witnessing (both of them _usually_ waited until they were alone – Bucky must have forgotten that Steve shared the bed with him) that despite _knowing_ he should look away, he couldn’t manage to force his eyes to comply.

 

“ _Uh… uh… uh… uhn…uhn…unf…unf..._ ” Bucky’s soft and desperate little noises of pleasure burned in Steve’s ears as they turned to frantic little whimpered gasps. Bucky, lost in his pleasure, rubbed his cheek slightly against his pillow, face still angled towards Steve.

 

Steve was thankful that Bucky’s eyes were closed in his bliss – because he _still_ wasn’t able to tear his eyes away from the sight before him. His heart was pounding, as each little breathy moan from Bucky’s plush mouth seemed to be the only sound in the room – in the entire world. He bit his lip hard, as he felt the heat pool in his lower belly and his own body twitch and thrum with interest.

 

Bucky’s pale eyes suddenly slid open in the darkness. They were nearly sightless with pleasure and lust, but they locked onto Steve’s face in the dimness of the room as he groaned a little more urgently.

 

Steve’s eyes widened in panic, before he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the blissed and dreamy look on Bucky’s face – forget the rolling of his hips and those _perfect_ expressions of pleasure. Bucky’s voice had shifted from wordless sounds, to soft murmurs – something that Steve could neither fully hear, nor make out the words to. Beside him, he felt Bucky’s movements lose their grace – becoming stuttered as he suddenly gasped a little louder.

 

Bucky’s brows furrowed tightly, his eyes squeezing tightly closed, as he bit his pillow to muffle his cry as his orgasm crashed over him.

 

Steve kept his eyes squeezed shut – _trying_ to block out what was happening inches away, but he _wanted_ that memory to play over and over in his mind – prayed that it would be one of the ones that burned its way into his psyche in perfect detail. Wanted the memory for himself, for his own needy moments.

 

He just prayed that Bucky didn’t remember this in the morning.

 

It was almost ten when Bucky finally stirred awake. Instantly, he groaned, and squeezed his eyes further shut as he whined into his pillow. “Stevie… turn off the lamp…” the brogue was gone, and in its place, the Brooklyn accent was rooted again.

 

Steve, half-awake himself, quirked a brow as he glanced over at his bed-mate. “Bucky… that’s the sun… and the curtains are _closed_.”

 

Bucky near sobbed as he covered his head with his pillow, to block out whatever sound and light that he could.

 

The hangover he had was, rather honestly, _terrible_.

 

“Why didn’t ya just tell me ya were goin’ as their fire extinguisher?” Steve sighed after a moment.

 

Bucky snorted a muffled laugh from under the pillow. He slowly pulled himself out from under it – his dark curls standing wildly; his thick hair acting like a mane. “’cause ya wouldn’t let me speak, pal. And, ya’d never have believed me if I told ya I was just a chaperone anyway…” he shrugged before slowly rolling onto his back and stretching his body out – keeping his hands over his eyes to keep the majority of the light out.

 

“You don’t know –“

 

“Yeah, I do, Stevie. Ya were so intent on thinkin’ the worst of me, that ya weren’t listenin’ at all. But I don’t blame ya, I’ve done some pretty cheap things in the past. Ya have to know though, I’d never do anythin’ to hurt ya – not willingly.”

 

Steve sighed and nodded, nudging Bucky’s shoulder with his own. “I’m sorry…”

 

Bucky pulled his hands away from his eyes, and grinned up at Steve easily – though his eyes were red and underneath his expression was slightly pained. “Nah, I forgave ya the minute I was out the door, punk.”

 

★

 

_Christmas Day, 1936._

_11:00 am._

Pushing up the sleeves his ivory coloured cardigan, Bucky glanced around the small kitchen, cataloguing everything that was needed, and already seen to. Nodding to himself, he carded his hand back through his curls, before checking the range. It had finally reached temperature, so he turned back to the task at hand. Opening the door of the gas stove, he picked up the heavy cast iron pot with a slight grunt of effort, and slid it inside. He gave it one last peek to ensure he’d not forgotten anything, but it appeared to all be there. The turkey, modest in size, was still bound to take four to five hours to roast, given the amount of dressing he’d stuffed it with. He closed the stove again, and stepped back to the small sink a step away, immediately washing his hands and shaking the excess water off.

 

Getting the turkey had not been easy – in fact it was very likely illegal – but it didn’t matter much. His employers didn’t care – well, they _wouldn’t_ care. They’d never miss one turkey and an armful of produce. Whatever he’d been able to _accidentally_ damage while unloading. Damaged goods were relegated to the garbage, and factored into the margin of acceptable loss during shipping. It wasn’t like Bucky was the only one guilty of it – but he didn’t do it often. But, giving Steve a proper Christmas dinner in their own home for the first time, well, that seemed important enough to him that he didn’t think twice about lifting what he needed from his employers.

 

Worse though, was trying to get it home without Steve finding out about it. And the turkey had been too big to fit into their diminutive ice box. Truthfully. Bucky’d had to make a slap-dash decision, and hoped that it would pay off. He’d buried the turkey in a snow bank, and prayed for the best. It had worked, thankfully, though it meant that he’d had to scramble out of bed _carefully_ that morning before 5 am, bundled up in three layers of wool, and scurried out into the pitch black darkness of the city before the wolflight.

 

He _really_ should have left himself a marker to find the turkey.

 

But, he’d managed to find it, and bring it back. He hadn’t expected it to stay as frozen as it had, and in the end he’d had to soak it in tepid water in their enamel sink, hoping that Steve didn’t walk out of their bedroom as Bucky fought to fit the slippery plucked foul into the basin. He’d almost dropped it several times – barely managing to catch it and jerking it against his chest like a slick, oiled, football. Thankfully he’d stripped down to his button-up shirt, and hadn’t ruined his cardigan with the wet slime left by the raw turkey. He’d ended up putting his shirt into a pot and boiling it clean while he’d made the dough for Sarah’s Soda Bannock.

 

It had been a _long_ morning.

 

Picking up the knife, Bucky finished chopping the potatoes that he’d spent the morning peeling, and tossed them into the large steel soup pot along with a couple of chopped onions. He filled the pot with water, enough to cover the cut vegetables and then some. He put the pot back on the counter – it would go on the range later, as it wouldn’t take long to boil the potatoes.

 

Bucky checked his watch, and finding himself on time with his planned schedule, turned to the range and uncovered the cast iron skillet that he’d kept the Soda Bannock warming in, and carefully pulled it out and onto a plate – gasping slightly as he mildly burned his fingers. Steeling himself, he quickly tore the bread into large chunks, tossing them onto the plate (if cut with a knife, the hot bannock would turn gooey) before he swiftly stuck his hands under the stream of cold water from the kitchen tap. After a moment, he picked up the plate of Sarah’s Soda Bannock, and headed into their bedroom, where Steve was still sleeping.

 

Sinking onto the bed at Steve’s side, Bucky grinned and waved the plate near Steve’s face, knowing that the familiar scent of his mother’s childhood staple recipe wafting into his face would wake him. “Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” He teased, even as Steve groaned.

 

“Buck?” Steve yawned as he stretched himself out slightly, and started pushing himself upright in bed. “What time is it?” he blinked blearily.

 

“Quarter after eleven.” Bucky shrugged a little.

 

“Quarter after – Christ! Why didn’t ya wake me up?!” Steve’s eyes flew all the way open in shock.

 

Bucky snorted and sat back a little, to avoid being hit by Steve’s sudden flailing. “Cause ya were run ragged this week _and_ you’re just barely over that cold of yours… and Midnight Mass always drains ya. Figured ya could use the rest more than anythin’.”

 

Steve sighed and half-smiled, until he caught sight of the plate half sitting on Bucky’s lap. His stomach immediately growled as his mouth watered. “Is … is that… My Ma’s soda bread?”

 

“Yup.” Bucky grinned – he’d gotten the recipe right _finally_ only two months previous. Sarah had kept the recipe written out on a little card, but it was faded by age and use, and even when Bucky had copied it out and followed it exactly, the bread had been… wrong. It had taken him a whole day, and five incorrect loaves, to finally figure out what was missing: two teaspoons of brown sugar melted into the buttermilk, and a tiny pinch of cinnamon sifted into the flour. That’s why, despite Sarah always calling it soda bread, Bucky had taken to calling it Soda Bannock – as it seemed closer related to his own grandmother’s old bannock recipe, than it did the regular Irish Soda Bread that he’d seen other families make.

 

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.” Bucky hummed gently, the tender smile on his face warming Steve’s heart.

 

Steve smiled back affectionately. “Merry Christmas, Buck.”

 

“Eat, and get dressed. I’ve got somethin’ under the tree for ya.”

 

Steve quirked a brow, even as a slight blush of guilt and panic flooded through him. He tried to play it off. “We don’t _have_ a tree, Buck. That scrap of evergreen brush you brought home and stuck in Ma’s old vase _hardly_ counts.”

 

“But it _does_ count.” He teased back as he set the plate on the bed and pushed himself up off of the mattress.

 

When Bucky left the room, Steve got up from the bed and got dressed, eating a chunk of bread as he went. When he finally emerged from the bedroom with the still heaped plate in hand, Steve did a double take. The kitchen was clearly in use, more than it had been in a while, and he could already smell the beginning of the cooking turkey.

 

“Buck… what-“

 

“Merry Christmas Stevie… I know it’s been hard since your Ma passed… and I know as much as ya love my family, it’s not the same as havin’ holidays in your childhood home… and… well I _know_ I can never replace her, Stevie… I thought… well I thought we could do Christmas here this year, just you and me.”

 

Steve’s heart swelled in his chest, with the wellspring of love for his friend. “Buck…” He set the plate down on the table and crossed the distance to Bucky in a few quick strides. He didn’t give his friend any warning, just immediately throwing his arms around Bucky’s shoulders and dragging him down into a hug. Bucky immediately complied – stooping and curling himself around Steve as he hugged him back – squeezing his eyes shut as they held onto each other. Steve’s fingers were knotted into Bucky’s cardigan as he held him, fighting the tears that wanted to well up. He couldn’t find his voice to thank Bucky, but Bucky understood more than enough with the hug.

 

When they finally pulled back from one another, Bucky clapped his hand down on Steve’s shoulder. “Come on, this ain’t my gift to ya, pal.”

 

Steve’s brows furrowed together again, “Bucky… we promised –“

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I _said_ I wouldn’t get ya anythin’, but did ya _really_ think I was tellin’ the truth?”

 

“But I didn’t get _you_ anything…” Steve sighed softly and pinched the bridge of his nose. If he’d known what Bucky was planning, he’d have… well, he didn’t know what he would have done, but he’d have done _something_ for Bucky.

 

“Hey, just ‘cause I didn’t keep my side of the deal, doesn’t mean I didn’t want you ta.”

 

“Yeah, but… you’ve gone out of your way to – do I even want to _know_ how you hid a whole turkey from me?”

 

“Snow bank, over on Wolcott Street.”

 

Steve snorted, thinking that Bucky was joking – until Bucky grinned sheepishly. “Oh my god, you’re not joking…” a beat passed, and Steve started laughing hard.

 

“Nope… was solid as a rock this morning – I didn’t factor that part in.” Bucky chuckled as he shrugged his shoulders. “Go sit down on the couch.” Bucky pushed Steve back towards the couch. A moment later, he walked over to Steve with a brown paper wrapped parcel, and sat down beside him. He was worrying his lip slightly. “It’s… it’s not a nice as my Ma’s, but…” He swallowed and passed the package over.

 

Steve’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he accepted the gift and carefully started working the kraft paper open. After a moment, he revealed a mound of soft wool in a muted violet-blue colour most often called _Liberty_. Steve’s expression softened as he brought the item out of the paper, and held it open as it unfolded itself. It was a knitted cardigan, handmade, and in a size appropriate for Steve. His breath hitched in his throat.

 

“Bucky… did you…”

 

“Yeah… I mean it took _ages_ , and … well I probably shoulda let my Ma help since I was keepin’ it hidden at my parents’ house, but… well anyway. I hope ya like it…”

 

Steve dropped the cardigan back onto his lap and pulled Bucky into another hug. “Thank you!”

 

Bucky half laughed as he patted Steve’s back. “Well, I know ya hate askin’ for mine, even though ya know you can wear it whenever ya want. And I really just… I made some extra scratch over the summer, and I wasn’t plannin’ on this, but I saw the colour and I bought eight skeins of yarn and suddenly I was knitting a cardigan.” He laughed, the sound a little bashful. “Ya don’t have to wear-“

 

Steve waved him off, and immediately pulled the cardigan on, bundling it around himself as he buttoned it closed. The cardigan fit him in the way that Bucky’s fit Bucky – just large enough to keep a pocket of air around his torso for insulation. It was warm – warm enough that Steve hadn’t realized he was cold until suddenly he wasn’t. “Bucky, I love it. Really.” He grinned brightly. “It’s so warm, _thank you_.”

 

“It’s merino wool, I think. I don’t remember.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I bought the yarn in July…”

 

“Jesus! How long –“

 

“I finished last night, before Midnight Mass, pal.” Bucky snorted.

 

That was the best Christmas in recent memory. Steve loved having Christmas with the Barnes family, but it wasn’t the same. No, a quiet Christmas with just Bucky was almost as good as having a quiet Christmas with his just mother. Only different, because they made their own traditions. And food. Far too much food – Bucky had _massively_ over estimated what was needed. They ended up packing half of the leftovers up and taking it over to his parents’ house the next day as they met for a holiday lunch.

 

Steve proudly wore his Liberty blue cardigan to lunch with Bucky’s family.


End file.
